To dwell in this night, which is whiter than the day,
A day which invents minutes of meaning,
- The water is a detergent
Which until dawn
Washes away
In its boundless stream
The dust of the memory of the vigil
From this old and polluted world.

With tearful eyes,
From the window to the elevated garden,
From the window to a lofty garden,
Fly,
In the infinity of this stream your stature,
Will grow colorless.
On the fixed wings of God's bestowing
With the favor of this most benevolent night,
You will pass
From every window,
From every outlet,
From every obstruction,
Without caution,
Free of anxiety
You will ascend,
Fly to your beloved from the depth of your heart
Fly.

The Ancient

You who are my old love book,
The oldest yesterday,
Today I review
All my dejection,
And my ugliness,
without your protest
Sits inside you
It is concealed.

I remove
A line,
A phrase,
A term
From one place to another place,
Nothing changes,
I find a new simile or metaphor,
A new metaphor
To praise your charm,
But you always exist,
Nothing changes,
O them of eternity.....
O beauty of meaning,
Your eternal fading face
From distance
Remains strange and unknown and from near
As if I
With all my exertion
Cross the border of lack of recognition,
I put my step
Farther,
You who are my old book of love.

The Blue Bus

At the station
We are standing,
And Mount Damavand stands
In front of our eyes,
And a question always hangs on that white gray bulk
Its dragon and beast are always there,
Where is its jail?

We are standing
At the passage of smoke
At the degradation of art,
In the glory of magic,
And sick anxious brains,
Pain
The stature of Zahak.

For many years we await our destination,
Expecting movement and bus,
At the historical crossroads of avenues,
Along Cyrus Avenue,
Ending at last at Persepolis,
In this lengthy line of time,
Old Kavehs,
Yawn
With us,
Beside us.

Perhaps Fereidoun's swift horse,
His steel horse,
May descend from the sky,
Will carry us to a destination,
Alas
The Blue Shemiran bus
Has not yet arrived.